The dogs are at summer camp: running playing, scuffling, growling, sleeping. Doing what all kids do at camp when a deadly virus isn’t threatening.
What freedom for them! And for me.
I can relax without part of my brain registering if they need to go outside, or what mischief they are up to when they are quiet.
I can take a nap, sleeping as long as my body says I need to, without an insistent tongue licking my face.
I can walk the streets at my own pace hidden behind my mask without two youngsters pulling me along or yanking me to a stop as they sniff an inviting bush.
I can eat my meals without an audience of begging eyes staring at my plate of possible goodies.
I can crawl into bed at night with the freedom of moving my body in any direction without encountering lumps of breathing bowling balls blocking my progress.
Summer camp. Oh, it is heavenly.
And I can hardly wait until they return.
I need those doglets back in my life, barking when a bird flies into the patio, wrestling on the sofa, chasing up and down the hall sliding across the tile floors, littering the house with once stuffed toys chewed beyond recognition, and snuggling next to me during the night.
In a month or two we will need another break so they can socialize with other canines, I can write undisturbed for hours at a time, and we can reunite with eagerness. Besides, I know when they are back in their own environs they will sleep for hours at a time. These guys will be exhausted, thank goodness.
I understand why our parents sent us off to our grandparents every summer. It was camp for us and a giant relief for them. There is the possibility Mother and Dad were not nearly as enthusiastic about our return as I am to get the boys home.